


Summer-Houses

by orphan_account



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1925 would be one that Arthur Hastings would never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer-Houses

**Author's Note:**

> UBER FIC IS DONE.
> 
> ...If you've been following my tumblr, you'll know I've been sat on this for a while. And now it's FINALLY done. Hurray! Hope you enjoy it. :D
> 
> And please, con crit and French corrections! I need to get better, guys! :3
> 
> Just a warning - this fic contains two sex scenes. For the fic without sex, please go over to my FF account and read it there.

Even when looking back, I would've never had guessed that this would be the summer that my life would be turned upside down. Seasons come and go, and still I marvel at the mediocrity of the events that stripped me of my hopes and dreams, and the simplicity that rebuilt them. Poirot would say I linger too long in the past, but it was in my nature to ruminate on times gone by, both the good and the bad. The event of which I speak involves myself and my dear Poirot, the little Belgian man who single-handedly rewrote many of my thoughts and feelings.

We were opposites in many ways. He was continental, and I was English. Religion did not influence me in my life, yet Catholicism was a great part of his. But I loved Poirot, more than I had loved any woman. But I was afraid, afraid that if I said a word, not only would I lose his regard, I would lose a great friend. The Catholic Church had made their position on homosexuality quite clear. Although I hoped that Poirot was perhaps different to the majority, it wasn't very likely, and to me it wasn't worth the risk of finding out. I made my choice years ago - to remain silent, to be an admirer from afar, close enough to hold and touch, but far enough away to not be found out, to not get too attached.

It turns out touching distance was far too close anyway.

It started on a summer's afternoon in 1925. I was down at my club, whiling away the hours. Poirot had work to do in his flat, and I felt it wise if I were not present while he worked - I often inadvertently distracted him when there, and it often annoyed Poirot when I distracted him whilst working. I was just about to start on a second pint of bitter when someone called to me from across the bar.

"Arthur? Arthur Hastings! Ove- woah!"

I turned around to see who was calling. For a moment, I couldn't see anyone at all, only the crowd of people involved in other things which weren't to do with me. I was about to chalk it up to my imagination when a young man of no more than thirty-five jumped up from the floor and brushed himself off. I recognized him almost immediately – there was not another man in the country who had such bright red hair as he.

"Why, isn't it Jack Bucknall!" I cried, shaking him by the hand. "How have you been?"

"Very well, very well!" he replied, responding to my handshake with the enthusiasm of an overexcited puppy. Jack Bucknall was a man I knew from my schoolboy days – I was six years his senior, but he used to enjoy tagging along with us older boys, much to the annoyance of his eldest brother Michael, who was a little older than I. We had all joined the army together, and he and I had even been in the same regiment for a time, until I was injured and sent home. I had not spoken to him since that time, though I had glimpsed him at one of two regimental dinners, probably dragged there by Michael. He was never much of a party person.

"Nice to see you again, Arthur." he said as he pulled up a chair beside me. "How long's it been? Six years?"

"Closer to seven."

"Blimey. And here's me thinking it was only yesterday we were signing our names to join the force!"

"Yes, and only last week we were playing cricket on the school fields!" I replied jokingly. Jack grinned at me.

"Of course! How can I not remember that? You all used to get me to sneak the cricket ball from the headmaster's office when he confiscated it from Michael for playing with it in class." We both laughed at this – where Jack and I were relatively good in school (with the odd detention for being late to class due to an overrun sports game), Michael was a real trouble maker when he was a boy.

"How is Michael?" I asked when we had calmed. "What does he do now?"

"Not much." Jack replied. "Left the army. Started up some business dealing with trinkets and antiques in London. Doesn't really do much in the business, but it makes him hundreds of pounds a year, so I guess he's lucky. Gets his secretary to do all the work. Lazy sod."

"Does he live in London now, then?"

"Nah, somewhere in the Welsh country side. He's staying with me for the month, though. A bit outside London, I mean. Some bint's shown some interest in him, and he's gone running after her. You know what he's like."

I nodded. Along with being a bit of a bad boy, Michael was a definite ladies man. He used to chase the girls until they went out with him, even if they left him a few days later. The abandonment never seemed to bother him – it seemed that it wasn't the amount that left him that mattered, it was the amount he'd caught.

"Of course. Who is it this time?"

"Some Lady of Honour, apparently. Name's Duchess - well, that's what Michael calls her. From what I've heard, she's far too arrogant to be in polite society, but I've not had a chance to meet her yet."

Our conversation trickled on from there. As well as discussing matters of the present, we also caught up on the past. I came to know that Jack had not completely left the force - he was no longer fighting on the front line, but he worked in an army factory, designing war vehicles and the like. He couldn't speak much about it - matters of weaponry were all very hush-hush, even in knowledgeable circles - but from what he told me, it wasn't as entertaining as it was made out to be. We talked about the war for a while, but soon enough the hour grew late, and my glass had been emptied save for a few droplets that stubbornly held onto the glass bottom.

"You should come up to the house sometime y'know. Stay over for a few nights. You and Mister Poirot, if he wants. Would be nice to catch up. Beats staying alone in the house again." Jack said, as he finished the last dregs of his drink and dropped the tankard back onto the bar with a _bang_.

"You live on your own?"

"Yes. Well, not for these few weeks, because Michael and his secretary are staying. But Michael's always out chasing his lady friend, and Alice is out on the continent at the moment."

"Alice?"

"Michael's secretary. We're quite friendly, Alice and I."

"As in- y'know- ?" Some strong emotion flashed across Jack's face at my insinuation, but it had been covered by his customary grin before I could examine it in any further detail.

"Nah, just friends."

Soon after, Jack said his goodbyes and left for home. I hung around the club for a few hours longer, idly sipping another drink, considering his proposition. A trip outside London could be right up our street...

* * *

It took quite a bit of convincing to get Poirot to come with me. He wasn't the greatest fan of being outside London, even if said place was literally on the edge of the city. However, the culmination of me pleading, his desire to travel at least a little and me assuring him they had central heating managed to get him to agree to come with me. We packed our suitcases into the Lagonda and, with a quick phone call to the Bucknall household, we were on our way.

The trip there was as pleasant as any, although I fear Poirot found it a little too fast for his liking, although he denied anything was wrong when I asked him why he was watching me drive. It took us a while to find the address, as where Jack lived was at the very end of a winding road of houses, many of which lacked any numbering at all. But after a solid hour of driving, we finally pulled up outside number 57 Stamford Way.

The house was small and quaint, painted a pastel blue, with white trimmings around the windows and door and two hanging baskets manning each end of the house. The houses either side were built in the same mold, although they were all different colours, and number 57 was the only one with any kind of vehicle outside - a dark blue motorcycle was propped up against the outside wall of the house. Jack was kneeling beside it, oil can in hand, tending to it. He looked up and waved at us as we pulled up beside him.

"Captain Hastings! Mister Poirot!" he cried, getting up from the floor and removing his oil-covered gloves.

"Hullo Jack!" I replied, shaking him by the hand. Poirot took one look at his dirty overalls and settled for a funny little half bow.

"I hope the trip wasn't too bad." Jack spoke after everyone had been greeted.

"Not too bad, no. Had a little trouble finding you, but otherwise fine." I glanced sideways at Poirot, expecting him to say something, but he was busy examining one of the hanging baskets.

"Oh, don't worry about that - even our postman has trouble finding us some mornings!" Jack laughed. He bent down and picked up his abandoned gloves. "Head on in with your luggage. Michael should be waiting for you inside. I'll tidy up and join you in five minutes."

We went on inside with our suitcases. The inside of the house was as quaint as the outside - the foyer was also different shades of blue, with a large archway that lead to the cream-beige living room and the kitchenette. Another door stood slightly ajar, showing the inside of a boot room and another door that I assumed also led to the kitchenette. A set of polished wooden stairs led to the upper floor, where I supposed the bedrooms and bathrooms were. A cupboard opposite the door held shoes of all different kinds, as well as being a surface for a large mirror and the phone.

"Is that you, Arthur?" someone boomed from the top of the stairs. Both me and Poirot looked up. A pepper haired man smiled down at them from the landing. It took me a minute to recognize the man.

"That's not you Michael, is it?" I replied, smiling. Michael laughed, before waddling down the staircase. This Michael was very different from the man I remembered from school. The young Michael Bucknall was fit and tall, with blue eyes that enthralled the vast majority of the female population. This man was rotund and seemed to sag on the spot, and although he still had the eyes, they were wrinkled at the corners, and dulled with the day to day life of corporate business.

When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he shook both mine and Poirot's hands (although it was more like him shaking our arms) before opening his arms wide. "Welcome to our humble home!"

"My home, Michael. _Your_ hotel." Jack said, coming into the room, now clean and overall-free. Michael just gave him a little half-shrug, speaking again.

"Come along, I'll show you to your rooms. Jack'll take your luggage."

We followed Michael up the stairs, leaving Jack to take our suitcases up behind us. Michael showed Poirot his room first - a comfortable looking room, with a fancy armoire, bookshelf and a large plush bed. It looked well up to his standards. We left Poirot to unpack and settle into his room, and headed to my room. My room was brighter than Poirot's, large and beige with a writing desk and a smaller bed, with a pair of tartan blankets thrown over the end.

I thanked the boys, and they too left me to unpack. I didn't have much - just the necessities, such as clothes and my gun, which I placed in its box on the writing desk. Once unpacked, I left to see how Poirot was doing.

"Up to your standards, Poirot?" I asked as I entered his room. He looked up from where he was unpacking the last of his clothes.

"Quite, Hastings." He smoothed down a suit of his and hung it in the armoire that stood by the fireplace. Stepping back, he eyed his handiwork, before closing doors of it with a decisive snap. He opened his mouth to say something else, but in that instant a raised voice drifted through the open door. It was not in my nature to eavesdrop, but the volume in which they were speaking made it quite impossible to not hear what they were saying.

"What do you mean, you've invited her over?" Jack was shouting.

"You haven't met her yet! She wants to meet you!" Michael yelled back

"Now is not the time for me to meet her! Alice is coming back tonight, Michael, and you told me to help him write up the reports!"

I looked at Poirot, nonplussed. _Him?_ I mouthed. Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"You can just leave him to do it himself-"

"No, you know how much work those reports are, Michael! It'll never get done if he does it on his own."

"Are you questioning his talents?"

"No, I'm questioning the amount of work _you_ give him!"

"That doesn't matter - she's coming over and that's final!"

"But-" There was a storming of boots as someone marched away, then I heard Jack sigh in frustration. I glanced at Poirot. He exchanged a curious glance with me, before heading to the door. I joined him, and poked my head out of the door. Jack was walking up the stairs, looking vaguely annoyed.

"Is everything alright, Monsieur Bucknall?" I heard Poirot ask. Jack looked up at us, and smiled reassuringly.

"Kind of. You see, Duchess - Michael's current partner, Mister Poirot - has asked Michael whether she can come over and meet me for once, and Michael, being the idiot he is, said yes, even though he knows fully well that Alice is coming back today, and I'm supposed to help him with work when he gets back."

"Who is this Alice you speak of?"

"Oh, Michael's secretary. Doctor Alexander Kensington, Alice for short. Trained to be a doctor, but found he didn't like being tied to a hospital, and now he travels for Michael's business."

" _D'accord._ "

"Right, I must be getting on. Better get everything ready before _she_ comes. Duchess is supposed to arrive at six, Alice at half seven, if you want to meet them. Just wait around in the living room for a bit."

* * *

That evening, I found myself waiting for both Alice and the mysterious Duchess in the living room with Poirot and the two brothers. Michael was quiet, checking the clock on the mantel frequently. Jack, however, had not closed his mouth since arriving in the room. Currently he was on the subject of what Alice might possibly bring back from the continent.

"...and he might bring back some champagne, but that's probably only if he visits the right French province..."

"Jack." Michael interrupted. "Will you ever be quiet?"

"Well, know, because this is _excellent!_ I've only ever been to Belgium before - Alice could tell me all about the other countries, like France and Italy-"

"I'd doubt he'd want to _see_ you, Jack, let alone tell you about his travels." Michael sniped, stretching out on the chaise-longue. " _You'd_ drive him up the wall. Like _always_."

Jack laughed the comment off, but when Michael turned his back, I saw the smile on his face falter a little. It was only for a moment, for a few seconds later he was joking again, but that one moment gave me a sense of foreboding, a feeling that something was about to go terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

I had no chance to contemplate my premonition - the doorbell rang at that precise moment.

"Duchess, probably. It's far too early to be Alice." Jack said, looking at the mantle clock. Michael hurried out of the room to answer the door, straightening his tie as he did so. We heard a brief murmur of conversation from the hall, followed by a woman's exclamation of " _Darling!_ ", before Michael came back into the room, with a young woman hooked in his arm.

"Duchess, this is my brother Jack, his friend Captain Hastings, and the famous detective Hercule Poirot. Gentlemen, this is Duchess." Michael announced proudly to the room.

Duchess was not a tall woman by any stretch of the imagination. She was a head shorter than Michael, naïve looking, with bombshell blonde hair and a floral patterned dress. Not to my tastes, but then again a prissy little Belgian wasn't too many people's tastes either, so I couldn't exactly talk.

She shook hands with us all, but paused for a moment when she reached Jack. "You look like the kind of man who's in the army, Mister Bucknall."

"I was, ma'am." Jack replied. "Now I work in Woolwich Arsenal."

"Woolwich, you say?" She sat down next to him on the settee. "You must tell me what it's like! My brother works there, but I hardly ever see him. He bought me this ring, you see-" She flashed her hand at the room, and I saw the large, gaudy ring sitting on her middle finger. "-and it reminds me of all those stories he used to tell me of Woolwich!"

"Well, I can't say much about it-" Jack began to say, but Michael cut across him.

"You wouldn't want to hear about it from _him_ anyway, dear, he's an awful story-teller. How about-"

"I think I can choose what I wish to talk about, Michael." Duchess interrupted a cool edge to her voice. She turned back to Jack. "Carry on, Mister Bucknall."

Jack launched into the stories of Woolwich Arsenal. Michael left the room soon after he began. I thought I saw an angry grimace cross his features as he left, but it was too brief to tell. It was probably a trick of the light. Jack continued to talk to Margaret, who was hanging onto his arm and his words.

At seven fifteen, Duchess' lady in waiting, a mousy woman called Margaret, called to take her home. Both Michael and Jack seemed quite relieved to be relieved to be rid of her. Michael kissed her on the cheek, which lasted a few moments longer than necessary, in my opinion, and sent her on her way, Margaret in tow. She had barely left the house when the door sounded again. Jack visibly brightened, and went to answer the door, but Michael reached the door before him, and with an elbow to the side, it was he who answered the door. Looking vaguely annoyed, Jack sat back down on the settee.

A few seconds later, Michael returned, deep in conversation with a young man who I guessed was Doctor Alexander Kensington. With his slicked back blond hair and tailored suit, he cut a sharp figure as he entered. Jack got up to welcome him, but Alice walked past him without acknowledging his presence, instead being led by Michael to me and Poirot. I saw Jack looking quite hurt at being left out, but I had no time to speak to him - Michael had begun introductions.

"Alexander, this is my friend Captain Hastings, and his friend Mister Poirot. Arthur, Mister Poirot, this is Doctor Kensington."

"Just call me Alice, it's less of a mouthful" Alice told us cheerfully, shaking us firmly by the hand. Once he had finished, he turned to Michael. "Where's Jack?"

"Well, he's there-" Michael turned to the settee, and stopped. Where Jack had been sitting before, there was now empty space. "Well, he _was_ there."

"Hmm... I wonder where he is..." Alice looked worried for a little while, but hid it as he turned back to us. "Have you met Jack yet?"

"Yes, he was the one who invited us." I replied. Alice smiled.

"Ah, he's like that. Exceptionally friendly, although a little chatty. I went with him to Belgium once - it was one of the funniest experiences of my life. Oh, talking of Belgium-" He turned to Poirot, who had until now been listening quietly. "Are you the same Mister Poirot who used to be in the Belgian police force?"

" _Oui_ , that is me." Poirot replied with a nod.

" _Ah!_ _Est-il vrai vous avez été un de meilleur detectives dans la Gendarmerie?_ "

" _C'est ca. Qui aves-vous dit cela?"_

" _Jack m'a dit, avec chaque gendarme que nous ont recontré là!"_

Michael and I looked at each other in shared confusion. Neither of us could speak French, so this conversation was going straight over our heads. Michael shrugged, and vanished off to who knows where. Seeing that Poirot was evidently not going to translate what he was saying into English, I quietly slipped out the French windows and into the garden. It was nearing sunset, and the last golden glimmers of light shone from the waxy leaves of the begonias and the ivy. The water droplets on the grass glimmered with a dusky pink glow from the darkening skies, whilst a full stream of water cascaded through the little brook that ran besides the house. It was exceptionally peaceful.

I wandered through the garden for a little while. It wasn't very big, but there were many nooks and crannies in which you could hide yourself in. Even so, I arrived at the back of the garden, where the fence had been purposely lowered to show the breath-taking hills that lay far beyond the commuter belt that Stamford Way made its home. A summer-house lay a little to the left of the path I was stood on, and it was to my surprise that I saw someone inside it. I was under the impression that I was the only one outside.

Silently, I stole through the grass and lightly walked up the summer-house stairs. A closer inspection of the person inside showed it to be Jack. He was pacing agitatedly, face drawn into a frown. I wondered what he was doing out here, instead of inside like everyone else. I would've expected him to have at least said hello to Alice, but then again, Alice had been completely overwhelmed by meeting Poirot. I was used to this sort of thing, but Jack probably felt a little left out.

"Jack?" Jack turned around quickly, obviously surprised at being found here. He had something in his hands, but the shadow that played on it hid its identity from my curious eyes.

"Oh, hullo Arthur." He greeted me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just felt like some fresh air."

I don't know what it was - perhaps the hollow voice, or faked smile - but I got the distinct impression that he was hiding something. "Are you alright, Jack?" I asked.

"Sure I am," he said in with the hollow cheery voice. "Just fine. A little worried about a fox I saw, but... See, that's why I had this-" He waved whatever was in his hand into the air. In the light, I recognised it immediately.

"That's my revolver."

"I know. It was the first one I picked up. Was going to shoot that fox so it didn't wreak our bins again. Sorry for not asking you beforehand."

"Don't worry about it." Jack handed me my revolver, and I took it back and slipped it into my pocket, still aware that this was not all he was out here for. Jack turned away from me, fully expecting me to leave. I admit I was tempted, but something held me back. Something about his countenance kept me rooted to the summer-house. Instead of leaving, I stepped forward and gently lay a hand on his shoulder. I felt him tense beneath my hand, and briefly wondered whether I had done the wrong thing. But he half-turned towards me and gave me a half-smile, before sighing deeply and turning back to face the open landscape.

"Could I ask your opinion on something, Arthur?" he asked, still facing away.

"Of course."

"How... How do you think Alice considers me?"

"Alice? Well, as a good friend."

"Honestly? He didn't even acknowledge my existence when he came in."

"Michael did waylay him almost as soon as he came through the door, though."

"True..." Jack lapsed into silence, deep in thought. I watched him for a minute, trying to decipher what he was thinking, before speaking again.

"Alice did talk about you quite a bit to Poirot and I earlier."

"Really?" he asked, quite surprised.

"Yes." I replied. "He was talking of that trip you two made to Bruxelles last summer."

Jack grinned fondly. "Ah yes. Had to beg him to let me go with him, and turned out to be one of the best trips of the year. Did he tell you about my adventure in the British Embassy?"

"He might've, but I'm afraid he was probably speaking French at that point."

Jack laughed. "He tends to do that. Come along, I'll tell you it inside..."

He nimbly leapt the stairs and bounced alongside me, nearly skipping as we went back to the house. I did not know what had pulled him out of the odd mood he was in earlier, but I felt that my words had helped somewhat. I was quite proud of this achievement - usually I blundered and made a social faux pas when trying to help. Poirot could attest to that on many occasions. But this time, I had not failed. I had helped.

If I did not have an image to uphold, I would've been skipping too.

* * *

Our good moods didn't last twelve hours. The morning after, I was sat in the kitchen with Alice and Jack, eating a full English breakfast that we had somehow cobbled together. Poirot had stepped in when we had first started, taken one look at what we were doing, and had opted for coffee and toast instead. He was currently in the living room, deep in thought. Michael had shuffled in, looking quite tired, but had perked up after a few cups of coffee and a bacon sandwich, and was now in his study.

As I was finishing my eggs, a sudden knock came at the front door. Alice, Jack and I all looked at each other - it wasn't usual that someone came to this house, let alone this time in the morning. We heard Michael come out from his study, and his heavy footsteps thundered against in the hallway. The latch of the door clicked open, and we all strained to hear who was at the door.

"Oh, hullo Margaret." Michael's voice drifted in from the porch. "You're early. Duchess wants to see me, I suspect-"

"Oh no, Mister Bucknall, sir." Margaret's squeak of voice piped up. "She's not asking for you."

"Not me?" Michael's voice was full of disbelief. "Who?"

"She's asking for the Belgian detective, sir. Mister Poirot."

"Mister Poirot?"

"Yessir."

"Are you sure you didn't mishear?"

"Yessir. She made me repeat it at least ten times to remember."

There was a pause. I wondered what on earth Duchess wanted with Poirot. Perhaps something had happened, and Duchess wanted to Poirot to take a case. My body tingled with interest at the thought. I rose from the breakfast bar and met with Poirot in the living room, just as Michael lead Margaret into the room from the other end.

"Mister Poirot, Margaret has a message for you."

"Mister Poirot," Margaret said, stepping further into the room. "Madame's wishes for me to take you up to the house."

"Now?"

"As soon as you are ready, sir. It's quite urgent."

"What's this about?" Michael asked, and I could detect a hint of jealousy in his voice.

"I can't say, sir."

"Then I'll come with up to the house with Mister Poirot-"

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm supposed to bring him up on his own."

"On his own?"

"Yessir."

"But that's prepos-"

"May Captain Hastings accompany me, _mademoiselle_?" Poirot mildly interrupted Michael's furious puffing, glancing over at the annoyed man. Michael glared at him, before quieting to mutters of things like "preposterous" and "mistake". I didn't know why Michael felt that no-one should see Duchess without him, but I felt his possessiveness was probably why Duchess snubbed him last night.

"Unfortunately not sir." Margaret said, drawing my attention back to the conversation. "Madame apologizes, but she must speak to you on her own. She says you can tell him later, though."

Poirot exchanged a look with me. I admit I felt quite put out that I couldn't come along, but I had to make do with the thought that he would tell me later. Hopefully. Often, Poirot kept me out of the loop until the facts had settled - a habit that annoyed me greatly. I forgive him for it in the end - I always do, he is one man I could never be angry for long at - but it doesn't make it any less irritating when he does so.

"I shall be with you momentarily, _mademoiselle_. If I may retrieve my coat..." He slipped past Michael and I heard him rustle about in the coat cupboard. Michael puffed angrily a little more, before sitting down on the chaise longue and sulking. Poirot came back into the room, now with his coat and hat. Margaret curtseyed to us all, before leading him away. Poirot looked at me once more, eyes full of apology, before following her. I watched him go, feeling a curious sense of loss at his departure.

* * *

Poirot did not arrive back until midday. During his absence, I had entertained myself by doing not much at all and by lounging in the summer-house, wondering what on earth Duchess wanted with Poirot. There was no crime committed last night that I was aware of, no theft or murder of any kind, no threat or angry remark. I was at a loss as to what it was all about.

When Jack came to the summer-house to check on me, I asked him what he thought of the matter. He hadn't a clue either, but we spent a good hour discussing possible theories until Alice called him in to help with lunch. I stayed outside for a little while longer, watching the sun creep along the hilly horizon, musing on Poirot again, and on other topics when they arose. It wasn't until later that a pair of footsteps broke my train of thought. Without looking to see who it was, I called out:

"Is it lunch now?" There was silence, as whoever it was paused in their tracks. Then, a voice I would recognise anywhere replied:

"Your mind, it is always on the food, is it not _mon ami?_ "

Startled, I turned around to make sure I hadn't mistaken the voice. But I was right. Poirot stood a few steps from the summer-house, smiling fondly at me. The afternoon sun glittered upon him, making it seem as if he were glowing. For a few seconds I was too overcome by the beauty of the sight to say a word.

"P- _Poirot!_ " I finally managed to say, and, lacking anything else to say, simply stated: "You're back!"

" _Mais oui,_ " Poirot replied, stepping up into the summer-house. "Did you not expect me to return?"

"Well, no, but..." I trailed off, shrugging. Poirot shook his head, before handing me what he held in his hands - a plate of food, and a glass of lemonade. At my curious look, he elaborated.

"Your lunch, Hastings. Doctor Kensington asked me to take it out to you."

"Thank you." I said gratefully. "Are you not having anything?"

"I lunched with Madame Duchess earlier." he replied in explanation. As I tucked into a lunch of sandwiches and scones, Poirot settled on one of the seats in the summer-house. Seeing as he wasn't about to speak for the time being, I left him alone. I was desperate to know what Duchess wanted, but I also knew Poirot wouldn't tell me anything until he was ready. So I ate my lunch in companionable silence, broken only by the clink of my glass whenever I went to pick it up from the side.

Poirot was deep in thought when I had finished lunch. He seemed to have forgotten that I was here.

"Poirot?" I asked, reaching over to touch his arms. He jumped a little, before turning to me, slightly apologetic.

"I apologize, _mon ami_. I was lost in my thoughts."

"That's quite alright, old thing. What were you thinking of?"

"A challenging problem set to me by Madame Duchess this morning."

"Oh?" I tried to act nonchalant about it, but some of my insatiable curiosity must've leaked through into my voice, as Poirot was smiling his indulgent smile that usually came out whenever I had a hankering to learn everything about something.

" _Oui_. A most challenging problem. You see, Hastings, Madame Duchess believes someone in this household has taken the ring given to her by her father."

"Someone's _stolen_ her ring?" I cried, quite shocked.

"Yes. Either Monsieur Jack, or Monsieur Michael."

"But... _why?_ Why would they? I mean, it's not as if the boys would like to wear it, or have partners to give them to- well, Jack hasn't got one as far as I know-"

"I do not believe Monsieur Jack has a partner, Hastings." Poirot interrupted. "Nor does either brother have monetary need for something of that value."

"So what reason do they have?"

"I was thinking perhaps more of an emotional reason."

"Emotional? Why, everyone was getting on quite well last night..." I paused as another detail struck me. "But, hang on, everyone stayed in the same room! It's almost impossible that something of that value would be taken without us all seeing!"

" _Precisiment,_ Hastings. You see the problem."

"I say..." I considered the problem in my head. "I can't think of how they did it at _all_. It's almost impossible."

Poirot hummed in response. "Perhaps, _mon ami_. But I cannot make bricks without clay. We must interview both brothers, and perhaps Doctor Kensington. He may have seen something when he came in."

He rose from the summer house, and brushed a few invisible specks of dust from his trousers. "Will you join me, _mon cher?_ "

"Of course," I smiled back. "When do I not?"

* * *

" _Stolen?_ "

This was Michael's reaction to the news of the theft. Both Jack and Alice were sat on the sofa together, looking quite shell-shocked. Michael was puffing angrily on a cigarette by the open French window.

"What do you mean _stolen?_ "

"The ring that Mademoiselle Duchess was given by her brother did not leave this house last night." Poirot re-explained calmly. "Either you or Monsieur Jack has the ring."

"What do you mean, _either_? Why would I take my dear Duchess' ring?"

"Oh I don't know, perhaps to give to the next woman you lay your eyes on?" Jack drawled. Alice looked at him disapprovingly, but Jack ignored it.

"How _dare_ you?" Michael growled angrily. "How dare _you_ when you spent most of last night literally _sat in her lap_ -"

"Ooh, _jealous_ , were we? Perhaps you took the ring because _you_ wanted it to look like I did it!"

"Absolute codswallop! I've never heard such rubbish in my life-"

"Some of the things you say to your lady friends are worse-"

"Boys, please-" Alice tried to intervene, but the two brothers were too involved in their fight to hear him. After a few more attempts to try and stop them, Alice simply sighed, and got to his feet.

"I'm going to go up to my office, see if I can get some work done while these two bicker. If you two want to ask me anything, feel free to join me." Alice headed out through the archway. I looked at Poirot, and at his nod, we both got up and followed Alice out of the room.

Alice's office was upstairs, a little past Poirot's room. It was a small room, but with some great feats of engineering Alice had managed to fit a sofa, a writing desk, a bookshelf and several knickknacks that were obviously foreign. Poirot and I seated ourselves on the settee, whilst Alice folded himself into his work chair. After examining the room, Poirot began to speak.

"Doctor Kensington, on the night of the theft, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not really. I left the cab, went to the door, and was greeted by Michael. The only thing I could say was odd was that his fobwatch seemed to broken."

Poirot tipped his head to one side. "Why did that strike you as odd?"

"Michael's obsessed with that watch. He hardly ever lets it stay broken for long. I only noticed it was broken because it was stuck out of his waistcoat pocket, and neither of the three hands were moving."

"Do you think Michael could've stolen the ring?" I asked.

Alice hesitated, before continuing in a low voice. "Between you and me, I think it's more likely that he did it than Jack."

"Why so?"

"Michael is a possessive and vindictive man. He detests Jack, and only speaks to him to get what he wants. If Jack annoys him, he knows about it. I wouldn't be surprised if he stole it to make Jack look bad."

"Steady on," I cried. "He's not all that bad!"

"Perhaps not," Alice replied, acknowledging my outburst with a tip of his pen. "But the way he's been acting recently, one might consider him as one. You saw him with Duchess."

I conceded his point. From the little time I had spoken to Michael, I had gained the impression that he had grown conceited, arrogant and possessive since we parted at the Somme. His personality now was a far cry from the cheeky young lad he had been in his schooldays. Or maybe he hadn't changed, and I had been too young back in school to notice his flaws.

I left Alice's rooms deep in thought, shutting the door quietly behind me. Poirot and I descended the stairs, and went back to the living room. The two brothers had all but vanished from the room, although the clanking of metal on metal told me Jack was busy with his motorcycle outside. As soon as we walked into the lounge, Poirot sat in the wingback armchair, and stretched his feet out like a cat. I admired the elegance in which he did this, but quickly reminded myself he may get suspicious if I stared for too long.

"What have you gleaned from Alice?" I asked as I passed by him, on my way to the chaise-longue opposite.

"Nothing yet, _mon ami."_ he said as I settled into my seat. _"_ I must exercise the little grey cells. Then I will tell all."

Poirot steepled his fingers and fell silent. Knowing he wouldn't speak until he was ready, I reclined on my own seat, taking the evening paper from the coffee table as I did so. I opened the paper and began to read. There wasn't really anything interesting on the front pages, so I turned to the local pages near the back. There wasn't much interesting there either, but it was better than the sensationalist rot that adorned the front page. I scanned the stories anyway, reading up on how a young girl had been saved from drowning by an unknown man, an aged cook's guide on how to make perfect preserves, how the local cricket team, the Potters Bar Colts, had been narrowly defeated in their friendly against another team...

I had nearly finished the paper, and was about to close it up and throw it back onto the coffee table when a small article at the bottom of the page caught my eye. I reopened the paper, and began to read. I saw immediately why it had caught my eye – it concerned the Pirrsborough family, who had only called Poirot a few weeks ago to help with a case. I did not know the full details of the case – Poirot had requested I stay behind for this one, and we had not discussed it any depth when he returned – so I was curious as to what exactly the case entailed. I read on, expecting some sort of case summary. I suppose there would've been a case summary had I read past the first paragraph, but the last line of that opening paragraph made my heart freeze.

_...whose son, Gene Pirrsborough, has been charged under Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885._

Section 11... From living around detectives and policemen most of my life, I knew my way around English Law, and I knew exactly what Gene Pirrsborough had been arrested for – sodomy. My heart felt as if it had frozen and died in the pit of my stomach. Was that the case Poirot had embarked on? A case in which to arrest a man for loving another? I knew Poirot had been raised a Roman Catholic, but up until now I had not thought it had much impact on his detective work. It obviously had more impact than I thought. If he had arrested Gene Pirrsborough for this, then he was not abiding by the law because it was the law – many a time he had let criminals walk free because he did not believe the law would treat them fairly – he was abiding by the law because it fit in with his moral background. If this was the case, then my one hope – that Poirot regarded me as I regarded him – would be burnt to ashes.

My emotions must've been quite plain on my face, as I attracted the attention of Poirot, who had stopped reading and was looking at me with a quizzical expression on his face. "Ça va, Hastings?" he asked me, sounding worried. "Are you feeling well?"

"Quite well, old chap." I lied, trying (and for the most part, failing) to hide the shake in my voice. "Just not very pleased at the cricket results in the paper. The Colts lost by twelve runs. And they were doing so well..." I trailed off, for fear that if I spoke for much longer my composure would snap, and Poirot would know exactly what had happened to me.

Poirot raised eyebrow showed how much he believed my story, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he rose from the armchair he had been sat in for the past hour and crossed over to where I was sitting. He lent on the back of the chaise-longue and began to read the paper over my shoulder. I rearranged the paper, making it seem like I was letting him see it better, but actually trying to surreptitiously hide the cause of my distress with my hand. I wasn't ready to discuss this with Poirot – I wasn't ready to have my fears realised.  
Luck was not on my side tonight, for it was barely five minutes before Poirot noticed the article that I had been trying to conceal. "Ah! They have written an article on the case of Pirrsborough here!" he exclaimed. I feigned blindness for a while, trying to put off the moment.

"Where? I can't see it."

"There, mon ami." He pointed at the article, whose title I had only covered half of.

"Oh! I didn't notice." I replied, acting as if it was the first time I'd seen it. I pretended to read the article, but Section 11 was as ignorable as a house on fire, and my eyes kept drifting back to it. After around two minutes, in which I had stared at the article and not actually read it, I felt I should make some sort of comment on it, though in my current emotional state I could not decide on an appropriate phrase to use, and instead blurted out the first question that came to my head:

"Was Gene Pirrsborough the man you arrested?"

I inwardly winced as I said the question. I didn't want the answer to this – it was all happening too fast. But it was too late, and Poirot mouth was opening to answer, and I hoped with all my heart that is wouldn't be the answer I was most dreading. But when he started to answer, I knew that there wasn't a hope in Hell that it would be the answer I hoped for.

"Yes, that was the man."

It was over. My hopes and dreams came crashing around my ears like a great avalanche, blocking out everything and anything around me. My heart, which before had been frozen at the base of my stomach, was now ricocheting in my throat. I felt like I couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think of anything but Section 11, the words that a few minutes ago were no more than a mere threat, that now looped around my neck like a noose, tightening with each breath I took. I could feel Poirot shaking me by the arms, saying something but I couldn't hear anything past the roaring of shattered hopes and dreams.

I vaguely heard myself make excuses and leave the room. Poirot was calling after me, but I wasn't listening. Even if I had been, my head wouldn't have processed the words. It was shattered beyond repair. Nothing was working properly. Everything was overcompensating and under-compensating at the same time. The lights were too bright, but I couldn't see for the darkness; the voices too loud, and yet I could barely hear them. I was working entirely on memory alone to navigate the house - on memories that were legible, from a time when I believed there was no chance of my best friend - my partner in crime, the unattainable object of my affections - could ever, would ever frogmarch me into the jaws of death for loving him.

There were a few voices now, all mixing and mingling within one another as I climbed the stairs, but I reached my room and shut the door on them. As a precaution, in case someone came to check on me, I locked the door and left the key in the latch. I didn't want anyone with me right now. It was all too much. I needed to be alone. I needed to think.

With the door closed, I could finally let free the damn of frustration and anger and upset that had been building up since the scene in the lounge. I went over to the cabinet, and poured myself a brandy. And another. And another. The emotion caused my hands to shake by the time I got to the fourth, so I abandoned it and collapsed on my bed, pulling at my hair. It wasn't enough. I had to escape, escape this fortress of pent up emotion that crawled beneath my skin like a leech. I got back up and paced wildly, shaking my head from side to side like a dog, trying (more like hoping) that these emotions would be flung out of my head by the motion-

 _Bang._ In the midst of my frenzied pacing, I'd knocked the writing desk. It shook at the impact, and the box that lay on top fell to the ground, tipping the gun onto the floor.

I stared at the metal implement for a while. The sight of it chilled my bones, but not because of the memories produced. It was what my head was telling me to do with it. Slowly, I picked it up. The metal was cool against my shaking palm. I considered it for a moment, morbid curiosity rising up inside me. I was curious, as to why this was the preferred way for suicides to die. I was curious as to how it felt as you lifted the gun to your head. I was curious as to what it felt like, taking destiny into your own hands, inviting death to take you away from this misery of life. I was curious as to how it felt, having the cold metal against your lip as you slowly pulled the trigger-

The gun was snatched from my hands by someone unknown. I heard it being thrown across the room, and land with a thud against the wall. This was so unexpected, I didn't move for a minute, just stood there, hands in the same position as they were. Soon, I gathered my wits and turned to see who it was. Jack was stood there, breathing heavily, watching me. The bay window lay open behind him.

For a while, we watched each other. Why was he here? It wasn't as if we were very close. Did he care if I lived or died? Would he try to save me if he knew what went on in my mind?

It was of no importance, for I spotted the gun underneath the bureau, and stepped towards it. Jack stepped in my path blocking me. I went to step around him, but he got in my way again. Again and again we played this game of charades, before he finally tired and simply grabbed me and held me in an embrace. In my frustration, I struggled furiously against him, but he held steadfast, and soon enough I simply collapsed against him, too exhausted to carry on. The mental furore that had gripped my mind had started to subside, leaving me feeling raw and empty. My legs gave way, but Jack didn't let go, simply rearranging ourselves to sit on the floor.

"Just let go, Arthur. Tell me what's happened." Jack whispered in my ear, and that was all it took to tear down every wall I had built and let emotion run unchecked. Gone was the stiff upper lip - now I could do nothing but sob quietly against his shoulder, and tell him everything. I cried for lost love, for lost hope and for a lost cause. I told him of what I felt, of what had happened that evening. Jack simply held me against his chest, not saying a word, simply being there as I broke down. Usually I'd be exceptionally embarrassed to be found like this by anyone, but the way Jack held me made me feel like he understood. He probably didn't, but the thought was there.

When my sobs had dried into quiet hiccups, Jack pulled back slightly, and gazed at me with worried blue eyes. We were so close now, too close for any two gentlemen to be, but I needed someone here to make me feel wanted, to feel needed, to make me know that the gun wasn't a needed end to my life. I looked back to him, the emotion showing plainly in my eyes. He seemed to get the message. He leant forward and rested his forehead against mine. Our breaths mingled as we stared at each other. There was a question, a doubt that lingered in his eyes.

_Do you want this?_

I nodded. The barrier between us fell, and suddenly his lips were on mine, and we were lying together on the floor, hand grasping anything we could as we tried to pull ourselves closer together, and just for that moment, I needed someone – anyone – to lie with me, to make me forget all that had happened that day. For once, I forgot what anyone thought of my actions, and let instinct rule my head. Poirot fleetingly flickered into my mind's eye, but I pushed him into the darker recesses of my mind – it was not my place to think of betraying him in this manner, he was not mine, never would be, and right now it was not he who gave my body what it craved.

I let Jack take control, allowing him to pull me up and walk me backwards, until my knees hit the side of my bed, and we tumbled onto it, hands and lips not breaking contact with the others body for a moment. Jack's hands explored my chest through the fabric of my shirt, going lower and lower, stopping only to thumb my navel, until his hands reached my belt buckle. Here, he paused, and broke the kiss we had been sharing. I moaned at the loss of contact, but he simply put a finger to my lips, smiling softly.

"Am I your first man?" he asked. I blushed at the intimate question, but nodded all the same. He nodded back and went to remove his hand. His fingers ran across my lips in such a way that I found quite pleasurable, and so I held his wrist where it was. He got the idea, and spent a few minutes playing with my lip, before he pulled away, and tugged quite insistently at my clothes. With quickening haste, we undressed each other, clothes falling in an untidy heap at the end of the bed. Jack lifted himself from me so I could pull myself fully onto the bed, then he lay beside me.

I ran my eyes over his body, drinking in every detail. I had never before had the chance to examine a naked man's body in full, apart from my own, and I took full advantage of the time I had. Jack was not a thin man - although his shoulders were strong, his stomach was full and rounded, a little like Poirot's in that respect. Unlike what I had seen of Poirot's skin, which was unmarred, Jack was covered in freckles and assorted scars. I experimentally ran my hand across his stomach, then went lower. I ran my thumb across his hardened member, and was surprised to hear him moan quietly at the motion. I looked up at his face, and his smile encouraged me to continue to wrap my hand fully around his member.

I continued my ministrations, whilst he ran his hand his hands across my chest and backside. He then took me in hand, and for a while I could do nothing but bask in the pleasure his hands were giving me. A brief pause in his ministrations made me moan out loud at the loss, but it was only so that he could slip out of my grasp and sink lower down the bed. Then his mouth was around my shaft, and I fell back into the abyss of bliss.

I thrust lightly into his mouth as he worked his magic, wanting him to go faster, wanting so desperately to fall over the edge, but Jack was having none of it. His mouth left my cock, and he crawled to straddle my hips. His erection rubbed against my own, and we both hissed at the pleasure and the glorious friction. Jack's lips descended on mine again, but only for a short while, for he pulled away before I could make the kiss any deeper. Tugging my hand to his mouth, he took my fingers into his mouth, sucking gently, an action that I found myself quite enjoying. But before long, the heat of his mouth vanished, and I found my hand being guided to his entrance. I admit I was a little nervous of this part, having only a little knowledge of how it worked, but Jack simply smiled reassuringly down at me.

"Just trust me." he said. He pushed his entrance against my fingers, and I gingerly pushed a wetted finger past the ring of muscle. The heat of him surrounded my fingers, and as he moaned in pleasure, I gently thrust them in and out, the heat of his entrance being much more pleasurable than the heat of his mouth. We left it at one finger for a while, before he coaxed me to add a second and a third, scissoring them and preparing him. Then, when neither him nor I could take much more, he wetted my shaft with his palm and tongue, before slowly lowering himself onto me.

The pleasure was immense. It took all I had to wait until Jack was fully comfortable before gently thrusting into him. Jack put his arms either side of my torso and rocked his hips in time to my thrusts. Our tempo rose and rose in speed, until I was so close it was almost painful to hold on. Jack leant down and took one of my nipples in his mouth, and that was all it took to throw me over the precipice into indescribable bliss. He came not long after, moaning at the overwhelming pleasure. We lay together, panting against each others shoulders, calming ourselves. After a while, Jack untangled himself from me. He kissed me gently, before wordlessly pulling the sheets over both of us. Sleep came and pulled us into her embrace soon after.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to find myself still in my own chambers, curled up under the bed sheets. Jack was lounging in the bay window, wrapped in a tartan rug and sipping a mug of cocoa, which he must've picked up from the kitchens a little while ago. For a moment I forgot what had happened, and was a little confused as to why he was there. But soon enough my brain caught up with the rest of me, and last night came back in vivid detail. I should not have partaken in this. I felt guilty that I could do such a thing when my heart belonged to another. I felt shamed at what I had done, shame at my lack of control and shame that I had potentially taken advantage of Jack's feelings. I was unsure of his feelings towards me, but I suspected they were deeper that what I felt towards him. I was fond of him, but he wasn't someone I could imagine staying with for any length of time.

A movement by the bay window caught my eye, and I turned to look. Jack had noticed I was awake and was approaching the bed with a second mug of cocoa. He offered it to me, and I accepted it distractedly. I didn't tend to drink cocoa at any time other than before bed, but this morning I needed something a little more robust than tea. I took a sip, and was surprised when the taste was not what I was expecting.

"Brandy?" I asked Jack. He smiled a little.

"How else do you think I deal with Michael on a daily basis?" I laughed a little before returning to my drink. The brandy helped numb the shame a little, clearing my head to allow for some clearer thought. We sat in silence as we both drunk the cocoa, each unwilling to address the giant sin-related elephant in the room. In the end, it was me who broached the subject.

"We can't do this again." Jack sighed, and put his empty cup on the chest at the end of the bed.

"I thought as much. Your heart belongs to Monsieur Poirot, does it not?"

"Yes." I paused, unsure how to continue. Jack was looking at me, but did not meet my eyes, instead focusing on my neck. "I'm sorry, Jack."

The apology seemed inadequate, but Jack did not seem to mind. He smiled, a little sadly. "There is no need to apologize, Arthur. I'm as guilty as you in matters of the heart."

That was not what I had expected. I looked at him, slightly confused. "You mean-"

"You have Monsieur Poirot... and I have Alice."

My mouth formed a perfect 'o' as the realization hit me. I had not realised the depth of Jack's feelings to his brother's secretary, but looking back, I could see all the signs. His expression when I suggested Alice were something more, how his body language changed whenever Alice entered the room, how Jack always had one eye on him whenever he spoke to someone else... I felt as if I should be hurt, but then again, he had done exactly what I had done, and I had no right to feel that way. In fact, it made me feel quite relieved – at least now I knew that my refusal to engage any more with him would not hurt him as much as I feared.

Jack, seeing my facial expression, laughed a little. "You didn't realize?"

"Well, no." I leant back into the pillows, contemplating the thought. "Do you not feel guilty? Like you have betrayed them?"

Jack cocked his head to the side in thought. "A little. But then I remember that you needed this, Arthur. Not for romantic or lustful reasons, purely to know that someone was there, to feel a connection to someone when it looked like there was no one. It is a human necessity, to need and feel needed, and last night neither of us had anyone but ourselves."

"But-"

"But what? This was platonic. We both know that. I feel a little guilty that I did not wait for Alice, but then again this may never happen romantically between Alice and I. There was no love in ours. This was simply a need that had to be sated. I do not feel very guilty, because what may happen between Alice and I is different to what happened between me and you."

"But... why? Why you? Why me? You could've left me to someone else."

"Because I understand, Arthur!" Jack leapt from the bed and paced the room in an agitated manner. "I am the only one in this damned household that can vaguely understand what happened! Everyone here with their straight ways, their straight morals-" He threw himself back onto the end of my bed, and rubbed his face tiredly. He looked defeated.

"Jack?" I ventured cautiously, not daring to ask the question on my lips, but needing to assure myself that he was alright. Jack watched me quietly for a while, before deciding to speak.

"Hastings, you remember that day in the garden, when you found me with your gun?"

"Yes..."

"What if I were to tell you... that I didn't borrow it to shoot a fox?"

Although he didn't explicitly state it, I got his drift immediately. "Oh, Jack..."

"Last night," he continued. "I saw myself in you. I saw me in that garden, mere seconds from blowing my head off for similar reasons to you. I couldn't leave you like that. I could never forgive myself if you went through with it."

I stared at him, unsure of what to say. Jack smiled sadly at me, before rising from the bed. "I'd better go, before someone catches me..."

"Jack-"

The door swung shut before I had a chance to think of what to say.

* * *

I did not leave my room until gone lunchtime. I had no desire to be accosted by Poirot, who was probably curious as to what had occurred that evening. Before, the thought of seeing the little man brought me joy. Now, it only filled me with a sense of dread, fear and heart-wrenching sorrow. If only I had not asked! This holiday could've been pleasant. The case would be completed, the culprit caught, and I would go back to my gentile life with Poirot. Now, everything had changed. Poirot would not stop asking me what had happened, and if the truth didn't ruin our friendship, the argument that his persistent asking would bring surely would.

I went downstairs, and peered into the lounge. Poirot was in the wingback armchair, reading quietly. He seemed not to notice my presence in the archway, which was fine by me as I had no wish to converse with him yet. I snuck past the lounge area and entered the kitchenette through the door in the boot room. There, I quietly made myself some toast, and sat at the bar to eat it, although I wasn't very hungry.

I had hoped that my preparations in the kitchen wouldn't attract the attention of Poirot in the room next door, but I was out of luck. As I washing up my plate, he walked through into the kitchenette. I didn't turn to look at him until I had dried and put the plate away, and he did not speak until I turned to him.

" _Mon ami_ ," he began once I had finished. "How are you this morning?"

"Quite well, old chap," I lied, smiling with false bravado. "A good night's sleep was all that I needed."

I had hoped Poirot would accept my lie at face value. He didn't. He frowned, and opened his mouth to speak again, but a frustrated yell from the hallway interrupted what he was about to say. We both left the kitchenette, and found Michael frantically turning the hallway upside down, searching for something. He looked up as we entered the room.

"Ah, gentlemen! You haven't seen my fobwatch anywhere, have you?"

"Well, no." I replied, puzzled. "Didn't you take it to your office last night to fix it?"

"I did, but I've searched there - I can't find it anywhere." He looked around as if it would suddenly appear out of nowhere. It didn't. However, Alice did, suddenly dashing across the hallway, looking quite stressed about something.

"Alice!" Michael called to him. "Have you seen my fobwatch?"

"Isn't it in your office?"

"No."

"Then no, I haven't." Alice nimbly leapt up the stairs, but paused at the top. Leaning over the balustrade, he called to Michael: "Have _you_ seen Jack?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm trying to find him."

"Well, that was obvious."

"It's important. Something about these write-ups."

"I'll look out front, if you want." I offered, sensing an argument coming on and wishing to avoid it in any way possible. Alice gave me a grateful look.

"If you could, Captain Hastings, that would be fantastic."

I left Poirot and Michael in the hallway, and stepped out onto the front of the house. Jack wasn't here, but his motorcycle looked freshly washed, so he couldn't have been far. I looked around for him, and found that the gate that led from the front to the garden was open. I followed the narrow path down to the end, where it led to the grassy area that the summerhouse stood. Jack lay across a few of the seats in the summer house, in his messy overalls with his feet propped up on a few cushions. I was about to approach him and tell him that Alice wanted him, but before I could move, I saw Alice coming down the garden path. I slid back into the shadows of the other path.

"Feet off the seats, Jack!" Alice called to him. "Do you know how hard it is to get oil stains out of those cushions?"

Jack fell off the seat in surprise. Alice laughed at him. "Alice! You surprised me!"

"Obviously." Alice smiled back, but the smile was off is face as soon as it came on. When he next spoke, his voice was urgent. "Jack I need to tell you something."

"What? We've got all the notes for the write-up-"

"What?"

"The write-up. That's usually why you want to speak to me."

"This isn't about the write-up."

"Then what is it about?"

"Jack, _Michael_ _knows_."

There was silence for a while. The wooden floorboards of the summer-house creaked as Jack sat down on its seats.

"How?"

"He saw you leave the room in the morning. He may be a bit of an idiot, but even he can put two and two together-"

"Hang on, _what?_ I didn't take it until this afternoon!"

"...What _are_ you on about?"

"What are _you_ on about?"

The two men in the summer-house stared at each other. Then Alice broke the silence.

"What did you take?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"Jack, _what did you take?_ "

"I-" A sigh, then Jack pulled something from his pocket and showed it to Alice. From this distance, I couldn't see what it was, but Alice seemed to be genuinely shocked by whatever it was. He stepped back, and simply stared at the other man.

"You mean, he-"

"Yes."

"That _cad_!" Alice started to pace furiously up and down the summer-house, Jack watching him quietly. After a while, Alice whirled around and spoke again. "He's trying to make you look bad! Just because Duchess showed more interest in you than him!"

"Alice, I know! It's not my fault he can't see I haven't the slightest interest in her!"

"Well, he knows now!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Alice turned away from him. They remained silent for a time, until Jack asked quietly: "Alice, what did you mean?"

"Jack..." Alice seemed to fight with himself to say the next words. "Jack, he saw you leaving Mr Hastings' room this morning. He's putting two and two together."

My blood went cold, and I could see Jack's had too. He leapt from his seat as if burned, and what little pallor he had in his cheeks left entirely. He swore violently several times.

"Damn! Damn, damn and double damn! If he knows, why has he not done anything? Is he going to hold it over my head later on? He wouldn't dare hold it over Arthur's head... Would he?" Jack looked at Alice for reassurance. "He's not that stupid, is he?"

"He probably wouldn't go after Mr Hastings - he's far too close to the police to be suspected." I breathed a sigh of relief at this, but I still worried for Jack's sake.

"I don't know what he's planning, Jack," Alice continued. "But be careful. Especially if you're with Mr Hastings again-"

"That was a one-night thing, Alice." Jack interrupted. "There's nothing going on between us."

"But... Last night..."

"You saw how he was, Alice. He just needed someone."

"But how often will he be needing someone?" There was a bitter quality in his tone of voice, something that made Jack hesitate before answering.

"What is it, Alice?"

"I... don't want you to get caught." A slight pause, then Jack sighed.

"There's something else, isn't there? I know you well. There's always something else."

Alice remained silent. Jack approached him like one would approach a wounded animal, and gently touched his arm.

"Alice?"

"I.." Alice turned to him. They looked at each other for what seemed like an age, until something seemed to snap, and they both stepped forward into each other's arms, and pressed their lips together. Despite the circumstances, I couldn't help but smile fondly - Jack got what he wanted in the end. Even if I hadn't, at least one of us was happy. I turned to leave the scene, unwilling to disturb them in this moment, but as I left, a sound caught my attention from my left. I looked, and I could see nothing, but I could've sworn I'd heard a click, something that sounded suspiciously like a...

"What was that?" I heard Jack whisper behind me.

"I don't know..." Alice whispered in reply.

"You don't think it could be... _him?_ "

"It might..."

"It sounded like..." A slight shuffling noise caught their attention again, and they fell silent. Nothing happened for a while, then Jack spoke again, fear evident in his voice.

"Alice, _it sounded like a camera_."

* * *

The rest of the evening was spent in shifty, nervous silence. I had returned to my room for a few hours, mulling over what I had overheard. As I peered into the lounge, I could see that Jack and Alice had come in from the summer-house, and now sat on the sofa together, looking worried. I did not know where Michael was, nor where Poirot was for that matter - both men were missing from the room - although I had seen them together an hour earlier. I pretended I couldn't imagine what they could be doing together, but _Section 11_ bleeped constantly at the back of my mind, reminding me of what danger the majority of the house was in.

"Arthur, have you seen Mister Poirot anywhere?" Jack asked as I fully stepped into the room.

"I saw him earlier. He was with Michael." I replied. "That was around an hour ago."

Jack exchanged a nervous, fearful look with Alice. Alice eyebrow rose in a silent question I could not hope to interpret. Jack hesitated, before nodding once, sharply, after which Alice rose and left the room. I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, where Alice was going, but Jack turned to me with a new urgency in his eyes.

"Arthur, I can trust you." Jack said, his voice low and hurried. "Can you do something for me?"

"Of course..." I replied, feeling quite confused.

"I have something I need you to look after. Here-" He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into his palm. I turned it over, and was startled to see that it was the Michael's stolen pocket watch.

"I-"

"Just take it, Arthur. Someone's called the coppers on us, they know about us, and we've got to go before-" A knock came at the door. Jack paused mid narrative and dived to the window. There was no mistaking the blue lights.

Jack paled considerably. He ran to the staircase and stage whispered for Alice. A responding murmur came from Alice's office. Jack then rushed to me.

"Arthur, I have to leave. Don't tell anyone you saw me or Alice. Keep that watch safe. Don't give it to _anyone_! Don't tell _anyone_ about it, understand?"

 _"_ Yes, but _-"_ At that moment, I heard someone open the front door, as Alice came rushing down the stairs, carrying two bags. With a nod to me, they both left through the French windows, and disappeared among the shrubbery. I felt a growing sense of unease, and that was only doubled when Poirot hurried into the room.

"Hastings," Poirot said as he hurried to my side. "Where is Monsieur Jack and Doctor Kensington? _"_

"I don't know." I lied, hoping that this would be the one miraculous time Poirot would believe a lie of mine.

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"Hastings, this is not a time for a game."

"I'm not playing one. I don't know where they are." Poirot looked at me furiously, but before he could say a word, a gaggle of police officers stormed into the room, followed by Michael.

"Where are they?" one of them asked, an Inspector Javers if his nametag was anything to go by. He was a monster of a man, bulldog-like in looks, with a flattish nose, thin lips and thick sideburns. His jowls quivering in excitement at the prospect of an arrest. I felt a little disgusted at the site.

"Where are who, Inspector Javers?" Poirot asked good naturedly.

"Jack Bucknall and Alexander Kensington. We've got an arrest warrant out for them - _Section 11_." I tried to act neutral about this, but Section 11 still incurred the same blood chill within me as I did that night with the paper. Poirot seemed unaffected, replying with a stony cold expression.

"No, _we_ have not seen them."

Inspector Javers eyed Poirot for a minute, before accepting the half-truth at face value. I wondered why Poirot had not forced me to tell Inspector Javers where they were, but there was no time to contemplate - Inspector Javers had started a full house search.

"Boys, spread out. Two in the garden, three upstairs, you two and me for the lower floors. Move out. We'll catch those buggers soon enough."

* * *

The police caught up with them five days later. I supposed that the police would've never found them had they not been shot by an opportunistic thief whilst passing through the southern end of London. Alice had been shot in the head, and died almost immediately from his wounds. Jack had been arguably more lucky, as the bullet had hit part of his spine, and as a result only lost the use of his legs. However, Jack was now almost certainly destined for the gallows, which made one wonder whether he was lucky at all.

I had not been able to see him - it was impossible to visit him without arousing suspicion. The so called crime that he was guilty of caused any man which entered his cell to be regarded with the deepest suspicion. From what I had heard from Japp, a few of the guards refused to even step over the cell threshold, instead pushing food, water and toiletries under the door for him. I had wished to speak to him before his trial - he had become a confident and a friend over these past few days - but I could conceive no way of visiting without being reported back to Japp, and then, by extension, to Poirot, who would be sure to connect the dots.

However, I was in luck. A few weeks after the news broke, Japp arrived at out flat. Jack had been asking to speak to Poirot ever since he had been in his cell, and it was only when he refused to eat until he saw the little Belgian man that the message was finally passed on to Poirot. Luckily for me, Poirot did not balk or refuse - instead, he acceded to his request, and we found ourselves as his audience the following morning.

Jack looked absolutely terrible. The death of Alice, followed by prison life, had taken their toll on the boy, whose skin hung off him like dripping wax. His cheeks had no pallor, and his once bright blue eyes had dulled to a stormy grey. He raised his hand in greeting when we arrived, but even that simple motion was weak and lack-lustre. Had he not been moving, I would've thought the gallows had killed him already.

"Monsieur Poirot, Hastings." Jack greeted us, his voice dry and harsh. "I would say welcome, but this place is as welcoming as a pig sty."

Poirot nodded sharply, before taking the only seat in the room, opposite the bed. Jack physically lifted his legs with his hands to let me perch on the end of the bed, whilst he sat at the head, legs hanging despondently through the barred headboard.

"Monsieur Bucknall, I believe you wished to see me."

"Yes... I wanted to ask you something."

" _Oui_?"

"Have you found where Michael's fobwatch is?"

Poirot tilted his head curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"What I wish to tell you depends on the location of the watch. If it has been given back to its original owner, then there is no point in me telling you what I wish - he would've gotten rid of it by now."

Poirot stared at him calculatingly for a few fleeting moments, before shaking his head roughly.

" _Non_ , I do not have the fobwatch."

"Then perhaps we still have time." Jack took a deep breath, and steadies his nerves. "It was I who took Michael's fobwatch."

Although this wasn't news to me, it was to Poirot. His eyebrows climbed his domed head, and it was with muted astonishment that he replied: "You, Monsieur Jack?"

"Yes. Me. You see, it was Michael who stole the ring, and he hid it in his fobwatch. I only realized this when I spotted him putting it in there."

"So that was why the watch never worked after the theft!" I said, the realisation of many things suddenly hitting me; why the watch didn't work, why it was of such importance that I did not tell anyone of the location of the watch.

"Yes." Jack smiled in my direction, and although it was weak, it was filled with warmth. "Unfortunately, I didn't the chance to hand it to you, Monsieur Poirot, otherwise this business would've been over and done with rather quickly."

" _Pas du tout_." Poirot lent back in the chair and steepled his fingers. He remained deep in thought for a few minutes, whilst I and Jack sat and waited quietly. I thought back on the past few days, and _finally_ I understood the importance that Jack talked about when he gave me the watch. Some of my guilt dissipated at the revelation, but I still worried that Poirot would be angered that I had hidden such a piece of evidence from him. I would certainly be hurt if Poirot withheld crucial information from me.

"Where did you hide the watch before you left?" Poirot asked, resurfacing from whatever thoughts his great mind was thinking. "Knowing there was such a valuable item hidden in the watch, I do not believe you would've taken it with you and risked it not going back to its original owner."

In response to his question, Jack turned to me. I pulled the watch from my pocket and, avoiding Poirot's surprised gaze, handed it to Jack. Jack flipped the watch over and started to run his nails around the edge of the back panel. I watched Jack struggle with the watch, refusing to meet Poirot's gaze, which was fixed on me. I feared what I would see in those cat-like eyes of his. Anger? Betrayal? Disgust? I felt Poirot was starting to connect the dots, and it would only be a matter of time before he saw the imprint of sin that marred both me and Jack. And then what?

A loud _crack_ interrupted my miserable thoughts - Jack had evidently given up trying to pull the back of the watch off and had simply turned it over and cracked the glass front. He pulled the glass away with his bare fingers (the little cuts they were leaving did not seem to bother him) and tore away the clock front. There, nestled among the clockwork, was Duchess' missing ring.

* * *

The case was wrapped up relatively quickly after Jack's confession. The ring was returned to a rather relieved Duchess, and Michael was arrested on a count of theft. I still didn't know how or why he stole the ring, but he had confessed to the crime almost immediately. Jack was executed a few months after his imprisonment. I did what I could to make sure he got a decent burial - he had been a good friend, and was there when I needed him most. Poirot and I returned to our flat in London, and the case was filed away and left to rest.

Or so I thought.

The week after the execution of Jack, Poirot was in a bit of a funk. So was I, to be honest, but even in my depressive state, I could see Poirot was too. I did not know why - hadn't he arrested Gene Pirrsborough on the same charge? Perhaps he had not exactly been the one to hand Jack over to the law in the same fashion, but I would've expected some sort of positive acknowledgement that another man had been served justice, however wrong I found the law that imprisoned him.

But no. He was out of sorts. There was no gentle humour in his countenance, no bounce to his step, no pleased greeting of "Mon ami!" when I came in from an errand. His stance was cold, and although he smiled at me when I entered the room, it wasn't one that caused the dimples I so loved to appear. I started to fear that he knew of what had happened between me and Jack, that he had seen my reaction to the paper and put two and two together. With this fear in mind, and wanting to avoid any confrontation, I started to avoid him whenever possible, staying in my flat or at my club, only appearing enough times so it did not seem suspicious.

Everything came to a head one evening when Poirot had invited me to dinner. I was in two minds whether to attend it or fob it off with excuses - the atmosphere between us had grown tense due to my avoidance and his demeanour - but ended up agreeing and going anyway, since Poirot's cooking was far greater than what I could ever achieve in my pokey little flat. Over dinner, we exchanged small talk but it was obvious our minds were on other matters. But it wasn't until we were sat on the couch, drinks in hand, that the subject was broached.

"Hastings?" Poirot asked, setting down his glass.

"Yes?" I replied. Poirot eyed me critically before cautiously continuing.

"You have been avoiding me recently."

"Have I?" I said incredulously, even though I knew perfectly well that I had been doing just that. "I am sorry, I got caught up with a few things."

"Like what?"

"You know, errands, letter writing... that sort of thing." That lie was as unbelievable as the voice I said it in. Poirot simply raised an eyebrow, before simply stating;

"You are lying."

Not knowing how to reply, I just shrugged, and took a gulp of my drink. Poirot was looking at me with his cat-like eyes, which glimmered with anger, determination and, worst of all, hurt. I refused to look at him properly, simply staring down at my drink as if it held the answer to the world's problems.

At this moment, I wish it did.

Poirot sighed, before trying again. " _Mon cher ami_ , what has happened that makes you distrust Poirot so?"

"I do trust you!" I cried before I could stop myself.

"Then why lie to my face?" Poirot cried angrily. "Why refuse to even look at my face? Why, Hastings, _why?_ "

"It's- I- just-" I stammered, before slamming my glass down and getting up from the sofa. I walked away from Poirot, away from the argument. I didn't leave the room - I was no coward - but I needed time to think. I wandered over to the window and leant against the cool glass. The city of London glittered beneath me, and for a while I watched the world go by. They had no idea of the war that was brewing in the flat. They drove on in their cars, encased in their own bubble of life, completely ignorant to the troubles of others. They drove on, back home, back to their loves, where I was risking leaving all that behind.

Poirot gently touched my elbow. He must've risen without me noticing. "What has happened, _mon cher_?" he asked gently, cradling my elbow.

"I-" I tried to speak, but lost the words halfway there. Poirot's green eyes, once infuriated, were now worried. The hurt was still there, yes, but it was overpowered by Poirot's worry. Worry for _me_. Would he worry for me after I admitted what I had done? Would he send me away, call for Japp or express his disgust? There really was no going back now - our friendship hung in the balance. There was no going back to what we used to have. To not say would be to betray Poirot, and to say would disgust him. I would lose him either way. I would not come back to these rooms, to this _man_ , again.

I didn't realise I was crying until Poirot pressed one of his handkerchiefs into my palm. He gripped my hand tightly and gently steered me back to the sofa, as I used the free hand to dab the handkerchief at my eyes. He sat us back down on the settee, and held my hand as I tried to calm myself.

"I'm sorry," I finally told him after a few minutes. "I'm sorry for being like- like _this-_ "

" _Pas du tout._ " Poirot murmured in soothing tones. He patted my hand gently, before letting it go. I felt its loss keenly, but didn't say anything about it - it wasn't proper for a man of my age to have his hand held. Even if it was rather nice.

 _"_ Shall I tell you what I know?" Poirot asked gently. "And you tell me what I have missed."

Not feeling confident enough to speak without my voice breaking, I merely nodded in response. Poirot looked at me for a little while longer, before beginning his narrative.

"I know that you purposely lied to me to protect Monsieur Jack that night, even though I believe you knew of his homosexuality. He trusted you to keep the fobwatch safe, and you were loyal enough to lie to me about it." I ducked my head at the second part of his narrative - I still felt horrible about lying to Poirot. Poirot watched me for a little while, before continuing in a quieter voice.

"You had quite the reaction when you read the case of Monsieur Pirrsborough. You did not tell me afterwards what caused it, and you avoided the topic when possible. And..." He paused, and considered his words. I waited nervously - perhaps what he had seen before could be explained as circumstantial, but I felt what he was about to say next could incriminate me entirely.

"Jack was witnessed leaving your room early in the morning, Hastings." The weight of his words told me what he didn't - it told me there was no mistaking what Jack had been up to that night. I dropped my head into my hands.

"Will you tell me the extent of your relationship with Monsieur Jack Bucknall?" Poirot continued, lowering his voice. I rubbed my face with my palms, and steeled myself to answer. Poirot watched me quietly as I struggled with my words.

"It was one night." I finally spat the words out. "Just one night. I swear, there was nothing else, Poirot. I just needed... _someone_."

Poirot looked at me, before nodding slowly, and looking away. I felt empty and hollow as I asked: "What will you do now?"

" _Moi?_ What would _I_ do, _mon ami?_ I will do nothing."

I looked up at him in astonishment. Was this the same man who had arrested Pirrsborough on the same charge as I? My mind could not reconcile the man that stood in front of me, and the man who arrested Gene Pirrsborough.

"But- _why?_ " I asked plaintively. "You arrested Gene Pirrsborough on the same charge-" I stopped, seeing that Poirot turned back to face me and was staring at me with incredulous eyes.

" _Non..._ " he whispered, as realisation of something hit him squarely in the eyes. " _Non non non non non,_ Hastings! You have misunderstood!"

Poirot took my hand in his. I didn't know what was going on, and I said as much. Poirot smiled reassuringly, and squeezed my hand.

" _Mon ami,_ Monsieur Pirrsborough was indeed the man I arrested."

"But-"

" _I did not arrest him on that charge._ "

"What?"

"Gene Pirrsborough was arrested on a count of theft. If I had discovered he was homosexual, I would have simply left it as it was, _mon ami_." I simply stared at Poirot, slack-jawed. These last few days, I had lost hope that he would at least accept me as who I was, and now I discovered that my beliefs were unfounded. Perhaps he would not regard me as I did him, but at least I did not have to fear for my life.

My relief must've been plain on my face, for Poirot smiled at me and squeezed my hand again. I smiled back, before asking another question that had been preying on my mind.

"You never did explain how Michael got the ring in the first place. How did he do it? And why?"

Poirot settled into storytelling mode, still holding my hand in his. It turns out that Michael had been jealous of the attention Duchess had been giving Jack instead of him, and had stolen the ring in an attempt to frame and discredit his brother. He had hidden the ring inside the watch, and then made it so that any evidence pointed towards Jack. Michael had stumbled on Alice and Jack in the summer-house, and seeking another way to disgrace his brother, had taken the photo of them. Once developed, he had tried to convince Poirot to arrest them, and after Poirot refused, Michael had gone straight to the police. I found the entire debacle utterly despicable, and told Poirot so. He merely smiled at me.

"But you haven't told me _how_ he took the ring." I said after he had finished. "Do you know how he took it?"

"I do."

"Will you tell me?"

Poirot looked at me, and I was surprised by the intensity of them. Poirot's eyes were intense and soft at the best of times - if I were a writer, I could've written novels on them - but there was something about now, something about tonight that made them sparkle with increased depth. Perhaps it was the lighting, perhaps it was the setting - either way, the moment was almost too beautiful to stand. Surely this look, this stare couldn't be what I thought it was.

"No, Hastings," Poirot murmured softly. "I shall not tell you. I shall show you."

From his pocket, he withdrew a ring that I knew he had bought for himself on his travels overseas. Using the hand that was holding mine, he slipped the pleated gold band onto my ring finger. I felt there was a certain significance behind this, a certain intimacy, but I dared not say a word, lest I shatter the moment that was occurring.

Poirot looked up at me, as if asking permission. I nodded back at him. Still holding my hand, he slowly lent closer to me. My breath caught in my throat. Surely I must been dreaming. Surely this wasn't happening. He only said he wouldn't arrest men on homosexual charges. Surely this, this culmination of my most hopeless dreams was some fevered imagining of my imagination.

But no, his warm breath mingling with mine was no dream. One of his broad hands entwined with mine was perfectly real, his cold ring on my finger was a perfect reality. No stretch of my vivid imagination could've fully imagined the mix of adrenaline, awe and pleasure as his cheek slid against mine. The kiss he bestowed upon my cheek was as sweet as sugar, and sent euphoria running down my nerves. This wasn't a family kiss in passing or greeting. This was an intimate moment shared between two lovers, a first that I would always remember.

Poirot pulled away from me for a moment, but not fully, just enough to look me in the eyes. I admit I was grinning giddily at this point, and he smiled gently at me. Slowly, he lifted his hand. I looked over at it. His gold pleated ring was held between his thumb and forefinger. He had removed it whilst I was distracted.

My mouth formed a perfect 'o' as I looked between him and the ring. His smile extended into the cat-like grin he reserved for when he had pulled one over on either Japp or I. I slowly started smiling again, and asked, as innocently as I could:

"Could you show me again?"

If he could've grinned any wider, Poirot would've. He lent back towards me, but this time I lent forward and met him halfway, my eyes shutting almost on cue. Our lips met in a gentle kiss, one which was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was not soft like many a woman's kiss - it was firm and generous, tasting of brandy and something distinguishably Poirot. We only broke apart when the need for air became quite great. I opened my eyes and smiled softly at him, and he smiled in reply. A thought suddenly struck me, and I snickered at its absurdity.

"What is it, _mon cher?_ " Poirot asked curiously.

"Oh nothing," I replied, completely relaxed. "It's just, years ago, I- oh, it's quite silly-"

Poirot gently kissed me, and replied: "nevertheless, I'd like to know."

"It's just... years ago, I'd quite convinced myself that you weren't interested and that I'd never have a chance with you. And now look at us."

Poirot laughed softly, and kissed me on my forehead. "Your deductive skills in the past were never very good, Hastings."

I pouted at his words, but then I realised what he was implying. "You mean... you _did_ love me all those years ago?"

" _C'est vrai._ "

"Really? But that means..." I slumped back into the pillows with a laugh. "Good lord Poirot, how many years have we wasted on dreams that could've come true had we only asked?"

"Does it matter?" Poirot replied, leaning back towards me. "This is now. _Autres temps, autres mœurs_ \- let us make the most of now."

"Yes..." I murmured quietly. We kissed again, but it was different this time - it was harder, rougher. His hands roamed my body, going lower and lower until he was thumbing the belt loops of my trousers. I rearranged myself so that he could pull them off, and then turned my attention to his neck, whilst he neatly hung my trousers over the back of the settee. As I soon found out, his neck was exceptionally sensitive, and he rather enjoyed the attention I lavished upon it. I unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt to reach more of his neck, but ended up removing it entirely, intoxicated by the sight of the porcelain canvas below me.

Looping the shirt over the settee edge (not as neatly as Poirot folded my trousers, mind you), my hands and mouth roamed his body. I listened intently to the sound of his pleasure, finding all the sensitive spots on his torso, including a rather odd one located on the lower lip of his navel. My fingers rubbed against his nipples until they were hard peaks, then my mouth nipped and sucked at each one in turn, until Poirot pulled me up and gave me a breath-taking kiss, lightly biting on my lower lip as he drew away. I moaned lightly and kissed him again, harder, but before I could take it any further, he broke off and stood up from the settee

From there, he pulled me to my feet, and led me to his bedroom. Poirot's bedroom was one of the few rooms I had not seen in any great detail since living here, but there was no time to explore, for Poirot was removing the last vestiges of my clothes and pushing me backwards onto his bed. I stretched out like a cat, watching how Poirot's eyes roved my naked body. He experimentally brushed his hand across my chest, before lowering his hand and taking my length in his broad palm. I moaned in exquisite pleasure - it was so different and so much better than the first time I had this done to me.

Soon enough, I tired of Poirot still being in his clothes. I sat up on the bed and ran my hands across his trousers, and brushed against the hardness of his groin. He hissed and threw his head back with a satisfied smile. I continued to rub him with one hand, whilst my other fiddled with his belt. I managed to undo his belt, and removed his trousers and pants with little trouble, putting them with my shirt. I explored his body with my eyes, feeding from the indescribable beauty that stood in front of me. I was glad to know he desired me as much as I desired him.

Leaning forward, I trailed kisses down his chest, pausing to suck lightly on his sensitive navel, before moving lower and taking his shaft into my mouth. He groaned, a guttural sound that sent shivers of pleasure through my body. I worked my mouth on his member, revelling in gasps and moans he uttered, taking pleasure in his. After a while, he tugged me up by his hair and gave me a lust-filled kiss, drinking deeply from my mouth. I pulled him down on top of me so that he was no longer standing, and was now straddling my hips. I rubbed my hips against his, and moaned at his lusty gasp and the intense pleasure. I did it again, and again, until I started building up a solid rhythm. Poirot begged me in his native French to not stop, to carry on, harder.

I would've been happy to let pleasure overwhelm me there and then, but Poirot had other ideas. Sliding off my hips, he gently stroked my shaft with one hand, whilst taking my hand in the other. As he gave me pleasure with his hand, he gently sucked on my fingers, an action I enjoyed very much. Once he had sucked each finger, he took my wetted hand and led it to my entrance. He looked at me, as if asking permission, and at my nod, he carefully pressed one of my own fingers into me.

It was an odd sensation, preparing myself in this manner, but the bliss from doing so, coupled with Poirot's lusty gaze made it worth it. I re-arranged myself so that Poirot sat between my legs, and then started to thrust my fingers inside of me. Poirot murmured his appreciation, his hand stroking his own member. I started with one, then moved to two, then three, scissoring them as I did so. One well-aimed finger brushed something inside me, and I cried out in pleasure.

Once I almost physically couldn't hold on, I tugged Poirot closer, encouraging him to position himself at my entrance. We kissed deeply as he pressed himself into me, and I almost lost myself there and then. But I held on, and adjusted myself so that I got used to his girth. With a nod from me, he started to thrust deeply inside me, gasping and groaning in French as he did so. His husky voice drove me deeper into the recesses of pleasure, and it wasn't long before his well-timed thrusts got faster and faster until I was crying out from the pleasure. Poirot came soon after me, hissing my name and a number of salacious French words.

We lay there for a while, each getting out breath and bearings back. After a few minutes, Poirot gently slid out of me and lay beside me, tugging me so I lay cuddled against his side. For a while, he simply lay there, thoughtfully stroking my hair. I hummed quietly, enjoying the attention he was giving me.

I was teetering on the edge of falling asleep, when Poirot murmured my name.

"Arthur?"

"Mmm?" I murmured.

" _Je t'aime, mon ange._ "

It took me a while to translate what he was saying, but once I figured it out, I kissed him gently, and replied:

"I love you too, my dear."

And unlike many of the things I had said this summer, this was absolutely, unequivocally true.


End file.
